


Six-Stringed Symphony

by Liangnui



Series: Nyx Surana [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: All Origins, But will be updated, Explanations Come Later, Fix-It, Let's see how this narrative handles seven Wardens, Multi, Spoilers for DA2 and Awakening and everything else, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, Time Travel, Warnings May Change, Writing by the seat of one's pants
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-29
Updated: 2014-04-07
Packaged: 2018-01-17 10:24:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1384033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liangnui/pseuds/Liangnui
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In one lifetime, the Surana girl would grow to be the most talented mage of her generation. She would join the Grey Wardens and end the Fifth Blight with a spell-blade and the power of an arcane warrior of old.</p><p>In this one, Neria "Nyx" Surana drops dead at age twelve in the middle of one of her mentors’ lectures.</p><p>...</p><p>Meanwhile, deep in the Korcari Wilds, the Hero of Ferelden lands face-down in four inches of swamp water and immediately starts sputtering.</p><p>-</p><p>Concept crossover time!<br/>What do you get when you combine a seven-Origin story with a time travel fic? This.</p><p>(Well, you could certainly get a better-written version of whatever "this" is, but I felt like taking a foray into the wild anyway.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: A Discordant Note

Once upon a time, there was a girl named Neria Surana, who was taken to the Circle of Magi when she was four for setting her cousin’s doll on fire. She would rechristen herself Nyx, after an old god of some country no one could remember. She would promise herself to never be weak again.

In one lifetime, that little girl would grow to be the most talented mage of her generation. She would join the Grey Wardens and end the Fifth Blight with a spell-blade and the power of an arcane warrior of old.

In this one, Nyx Surana drops dead at age twelve in the middle of one of her mentors’ lectures. The healers and the templars can’t find anything wrong with her, but they burn her body all the same. She was a promising student and, with no evidence of foul play, it’s just another death to be mourned. Eventually, Stefan Amell would rise as Irving’s new star pupil, and blossom with his tutelage into one of the most powerful young mages any of them have ever seen.

Meanwhile, deep in the Korcari Wilds, the Hero of Ferelden lands face-down in four inches of swamp water and immediately starts sputtering. She’s naked, it’s winter, and the air fills with the sound of splashing and blasphemous cursing.

 

* * *

 

The multiple universes hypothesis states that there are an infinite number of universes, collectively known as the "multiverse." If a person is about to travel back in time, he will create his own parallel universe upon arrival in the past.

It’s not exactly _wrong_.

 

* * *

 

Six years before the Fifth Blight begins, Elissa Cousland, Stefan Amell, Kallian Tabris, Theron Mahariel, Durin Aeducan, and Faren Brosca are all alive and well. They are young and untried by true darkness, living lives that are hardly unique at this stage.

Six years before the Fifth Blight, Neria “Nyx” Surana arrives in a Ferelden that, to her, is nearly sixteen years gone. She’s twenty-eight years old, gifted with a splitting headache, and in the company of a woman she’s certain she’s going to have to kill a dozen times to make it stick.

(Also known as Flemeth.)

 

* * *

 

**_9:24 Dragon_ **

 

Personally, Nyx has been nursing a theory that Flemeth is in fact an Old God in human form. She doesn’t say anything about it, since the legendary _Asha’bellanar_ is a lot easier to deal with when she’s pretending to be a creepy old human. Now that she pays attention, it’s a lot easier to tell that Flemeth is no normal mage, or even an abomination. Avernus didn’t feel like this—in fact, the ancient blood mage had been more human than Flemeth, even after some two hundred years stuffed in a tower with only demons for company.

She’s still rather happy that Morrigan isn’t around. Nyx is under no illusions about the pair’s relationship, and she’s certain that Flemeth will keep any potential contaminants away from her daughter—Grey Warden or not.

For one thing, she’s not nearly the last Grey Warden in Ferelden.

Nyx Surana is an elf with jet-black hair pulled back into a short tail, subtle crows’ feet around her green eyes, and tattoos on her cheeks that resemble flames in a strong wind. She has pointed ears that lie almost flat against the sides of her head, is half a head shorter than Flemeth even when wearing heels, and has the skinny build usually associated with both elves and mages.

And she’s having a hard time believing that she’s somehow dropped into a world where the Blight, rather than being conquered, _hasn’t happened yet_.

It’s just as well that Flemeth is the first person she runs into.

“I have to admit to being at a loss.” Nyx remarks, looking out into the Wilds and feeling almost dizzy at the revelation. She remembers looking up at a sky reddened by tears in reality, and seeing something look _back_. She doesn’t want to have anything to do with that future, and yet…

“Now, has that ever stopped you, Warden?” Flemeth asks. It doesn’t sound like her usual inane commentary, and Nyx gives her a sidelong look. “Oh, you can’t expect me to give away _all_ my secrets.”

“True, on both counts.” Nyx says, and remarks, “Some things simply have to be accepted.”

Though that’s not to say she won’t confirm what she suspects with someone _else_ as soon as she can. Flemeth is many things, but “trustworthy” is not one of them.

“Hmph.” Nyx gets the impression that Flemeth is laughing at her. “Do try to come up with a new bit of wit the next time we meet, Warden. I do so enjoy our talks.”

Nyx leaves with the probably accurate impression that nothing she does, now, will go unnoticed.

She sighs inwardly, cinches the belt of her borrowed clothes a little tighter, and goes on her way. Hopefully, she can find one of those fabled few dozen Fereldan Grey Wardens in order to figure out what in Andraste’s name she’s going to do next.

 

* * *

**_9:30 Dragon_**

 

_“So, the plan is to start at one end of Ferelden and make our way southward to Ostagar, hopefully making it there in time for the battle. Separately. Really, Commander, am I the best choice for this?”_

_“I have no doubt in your abilities, Warden Surana. You’ve proven yourself capable time and again, and with luck you won’t have to fight for your recruits.”_

_“…Very well, Commander. We’ll begin in Denerim."_

 

* * *

In another world, Kallian Tabris is arrested for the murder of Vaughan Kendall and is never seen again.

In this one, Duncan invokes the Right of Conscription for her sake as one of his fellow Wardens—an _elf_!—looks on, with her arms crossed over her breastplate. She shakes Kallian’s hand when the girl stops shaking, though, and steadies her as the battle-rush fades.

Duncan goes one way as they leave Denerim. Kallian and the elf Grey Warden, one Nyx Surana, go the other.

 

* * *

 

 

_“Where are we heading now, ser?” Kallian asks._

_“Highever.”_

 

* * *

 

 

In one world, Elissa Cousland dies defending her family to the last from Arl Howe’s men. It’s a futile stand, and her older brother Fergus is the only living Cousland left by the time the disaster at Ostagar occurs. Her mabari hound makes it to the battlefield alive and joins the future Commander of the Grey on her quest to end the Blight.

In this one, Nys Surana and Kallian Tabris argue their way into the Cousland estate as Senior Warden and Warden-Recruit. While Duncan’s instructions list Ser Roland Gilmore as a backup, both of them can see that Elissa Cousland, the teryn’s daughter, is a much more promising find.

(Senior Warden Surana also barely keeps from setting Arl Howe ablaze where he stands in the foyer, but that’s another story.)

Senior Warden Surana, Warden-Recruit Kallian Tabris, Elissa Cousland, Teyrna Eleanor Cousland, and Bear the mabari cut a bloody path through Arl Howe’s forces. They’re too late to save Elissa’s sister-in-law and nephew, but manage to inflict horrific losses on the Amaranthine troops regardless. While the castle’s escape tunnel is defended by a Grey Warden battlemage on the warpath, Bryce and Eleanor Cousland still elect to stay behind.

Senior Warden Surana leads Kallian and Elissa to the southeast.

 

* * *

 

 

_“Where are we going?” Kallian asks, because her companion is still deeply in shock. They both need to know._

_“To the Dalish. Last anyone heard, they’re in the Brecilian Forest, and we may find what we’re looking for there.” Senior Warden Surana tells them._

_Elissa says nothing._

_Bear nudges her hand and whines._

 

* * *

 

In another world, Theron Mahariel dies of the Taint before he can go through the Joining. His brother-in-arms, Tamlen, dies alone and unmourned by his killers. The only reminders of Theron’s existence are the memories of his clan and a lone oak sapling planted over an empty grave.

In this one, Senior Warden Surana takes one look at him and decides that he’s coming to Ostagar in order to become a Grey Warden and do more good than he would by dying. If she holds a grudge about him holding one of her recruits at bow-point for a few minutes, she doesn’t say anything. If Warden-Recruit Cousland holds anything like a grudge either, she also keeps her silence.

Theron isn’t sure what to think about that.

 

* * *

 

_“Ostagar?”_

_“Ostagar.”_

 

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Endgame Warden, early game setting.
> 
> And a bunch of little Grey Wardens who are going to cheerfully turn Ferelden upside-down.
> 
> (Why I am mixing these two concepts, I don't know. Quite likely I'm too ambitious for my own good.)


	2. All Men Die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein the battle at Ostagar happens.

If anyone asked Alistair what he thought of the new Warden-Recruits, he’d be at a loss for what to say.

He _thinks_ plenty, though.

For one thing, there were two batches of recruits this time, for a total of six. He’s more inclined to trust Duncan’s group—two male dwarves and a mage. Not because of anything they’ve said or done, but because Duncan was the one who brought them in. He’s sort of hesitant around anyone Warden Surana brings in—the elf comes across as terribly intense most of the time—but somehow, she’s managed to assemble a gaggle of recruits for the Wardens as well.

Durin, the dwarf with the heavy scale armor and the longest hair, is about tall enough to meet Surana’s collarbone. His black hair is tied back from his face with crown braids and his beard and mustache are hacked off short. He looks, all told, like he both could and would kill a darkspawn just by glaring at it, and he demonstrates a watered-down version on nearly everyone he meets.

Faren is…different. He’s the first beardless dwarf that Alistair has ever seen, though he certainly seems old enough to grow one—all he has is light brown stubble across his jaw and loose brown curls on his head. He also has a tattoo across one cheekbone that curves up and around his eye, toward his hairline. He wears boiled leather armor instead of steel, and has some of the quickest reactions—particularly where purse-strings are involved—out of everyone in camp.

Stefan Amell is a mage, but Alistair doesn’t hold that against him. Stefan is quick-witted and seems cheerful, despite vaguely mentioning something to do with the mage prison, Aeonar. For one thing, he shares Alistair’s sense of humor and doesn’t seem to have a particular problem with the whole templar-in-training thing that, oh, every other mage in Thedas seems to. Even if he did threaten to crack his staff over Alistair’s head once, or maybe twice.

Senior Warden Surana’s group consists of two women and one man. It also consists of two elves and one human.

“You can stop daydreaming anytime, Alistair.” Warden Surana comments.

There’s nothing acidic about her tone, but Alistair jumps anyway. _Maker_ , the woman is a sneak. He didn’t even hear her approach, and she’s wearing armor today. If it wasn’t for a number of things that throw off the image—pointed rather than rounded ears, a glaive lined with lyrium rather than a sword and shield, and the fact that her head’s at the same height as the average man’s collarbone—she’d almost pass for an ordinary footsoldier.

Part of the problem is that no one really knows anything about her. Oh, Surana’s one of the most dangerous mages anyone’s ever met, yes, and has been a Warden for ages—but no one seems to remember her Joining. Duncan recruited her in the Frostback Mountains, everyone says, but they’re both tight-lipped on exactly how that happened and it makes people nervous. She’ll sometimes mention being in a Circle, and her accent implies that she’s a lifelong Ferelden, but no one wants to visit Kinloch Hold to ask if they’ve had a mage go missing.

Mostly because the answer is probably yes, and giving up a battlemage is kind of not something that Grey Wardens do when darkspawn need killing.

“Oh, don’t mind me. I just stand here and look pretty.” Alistair replies flippantly.

“If you’re going to be standing around like a lump, then at least give me your opinions on the new recruits.” Warden Surana tells him.

Alistair hesitates, but then she does the _Eyebrow Thing_ and he gives in. He repeats a lot of what he’s thinking about the group Duncan brought back, since Durin is nowhere in hearing range, and then he has to think on it.

“I don’t really know anything about Theron, but he seems all right.” Alistair hedges. “Standoffish, but I think the Dalish are usually like that if they’re not turning humans into pincushions. Though we really do need him to go through the Joining. He’s been stuck with the Taint for what, a week?”

What he doesn’t say is this: Theron Mahariel is apparently the most insane person in camp. He can’t think of any other reason the red-haired elf would willingly associate with Durin, but they seem to be getting on well enough. Everything that’s been hacked to bits in the last half-hour or so was designed for it.

At this rate they’re going to have to get more practice dummies.

Surana nods. “Yes, that was my opinion as well. Duncan had very good timing.”

Alistair ignores that and goes on, “Kallian seems nice, but it’s hard to forget the whole ‘I killed an arl’s son for raping my cousin’ thing she brought up to King Cailan—the story’s already making its way around camp. She hasn’t been snappy or rude to anyone besides him, though—she mostly wants her own space, I think. Maker knows I can understand that.”

What he doesn’t say is this: Kallian Tabris seems sad where other people are content—she’s not sobbing all over things, but she’s hardly happy. That seems to be a common theme with this batch of recruits. Alistair wonders if he was the only person happy to be brought into the fold in the last year.

And since Stefan is a mage, he’s pretty sure that back-and-forth banter won’t last forever.

He scratches his cheek and says, “And…I haven’t heard Elissa talk. At all. What happened?”

What he doesn’t say goes a little like this: If there was ever a woman who seemed more golem than human, Alistair hasn’t met her. Elissa walks, listens, and fights, but otherwise she seems content just with her mabari’s company. And he uses the word “content” in the broadest possible sense—the girl looks one step short of a murderous rampage or turning to stone sometimes, depending on the light.

“That isn’t my place to tell, Alistair,” Warden Surana tells him, and she actually looks worried. He peers in the direction she’s looking, and spots Elissa sitting with her mabari, at the pyre Duncan built earlier. There is a noticeable gap in the persistent Ostagar crowd around her. He wonders if she’s glaring at everyone like Durin is. Surana waves a hand. “Go and make friends. Maker knows they all need one, and apparently they’re almost all too antisocial to take the initiative.”

He gives her a careful, hesitant smile. “Was that an order, Surana?”

“If it has to be.” As she walks away, Alistair hears her mutter, “I can’t believe this lot make me look sane.”

Not remotely cheered by this thought, he goes off to gather the recruits.

 

* * *

 

“Surely you need _some_ of us to stay here with the army.” Durin is saying, and the way he says it makes it sound, simultaneously, like a demand and a way of questioning the answerer’s sanity. Senior Warden Surana, for her part, looks so patently unimpressed that it’s easy to imagine her envisioning Durin as something she scraped off one of her boots.

Faren wonders how in the _world_ a noble-caste warrior manages to be an honor-driven hidebound idiot even as he argues tactics. Ergo, Surana is a veteran Grey Warden and a mage, and Durin is (while resistant to magic like all dwarves are) a former prince.

This is not going to end well.

(For a first meeting with Duncan’s elfy counterpart, it was going badly from the get-go.)

Surana sighs. “It’s not my decision. The king has decided that we need at least three junior Wardens to light a bloody beacon and I’d rather you all head off together.”

Durin’s frown becomes even more impressive.

“What’s so important about us being together?” Stefan jumps in, standing somewhat further toward the back.

Surana says nothing for a moment. Then, after checking for eavesdroppers, she explains, “Both Duncan and I have reason to believe that there may be trouble in the Tower, and a single runner won’t survive. Besides, the king demands it.”

Alistair—Duncan’s protégé, Faren guesses—says, “This is something to do with…oh. _Oh_. You really think so?”

“King Cailan isn’t as subtle as he thinks he is.” Surana says bluntly. She looks at all of them. “If you’re sure in your abilities, up to three of you _will_ be allowed to join the battle proper. But only among the ranks of the Grey Wardens, and you are to retreat the _instant_ the tides of fortune shift.”

Alistair, Faren notices, looks even more upset.

“You seven are the newest blood the order’s had for some time.” Surana tells them. She sighs. “Like it or not, keep the possibility of failure in mind. We’re hardly gods.”

“We won’t fail.” Faren looks back and realizes that the rasp of a reply is coming from the human woman—Elissa Cousland, who’s been silent up until now. Her eyes are dark and narrowed in determination.

Kallian adds, “I volunteer the light the signal.” When the others give her disbelieving looks, she replies, “I’m not a warrior. But I know how to get in and out of places safely.”

This draws a smirk from Surana. “True. Anyone else?”

“I’ll go with her.” Faren says, shrugging. “I know how to fight, sure, but I’m better at traps.” And besides, he’d rather get away from Durin while the former prince is still forgetting he exists.

“I’ll stay here and face the horde.” Durin says bluntly. “There can be no other path.”

“I’d rather help here, too.” Stefan admits, which is a shock. The mage adds, “I only noticed a few other mages heading to support the army, and you’re the only mage I’ve seen among the Wardens. Seems like you could use a bit of a hand, yeah?”

Theron, after some consideration, says, “My place is where my bow will do the most good. I will stay.”

“Well, that’s three for the ground.” Surana concludes, grimacing slightly. Apparently the human king had been the one to impose the orders. “Elissa, Alistair, Kallian, and Faren, get yourselves ready for the Tower of Ishal. Hopefully, it’s less dangerous than the meat-grinder down here.” She makes a sweeping gesture with her glaive. “Meet up with Duncan by the pyre when you’re ready. He’ll send you on your way.”

“And us?” Stefan asks.

“Stefan, Durin, and Theron will be staying with me.” Surana says. “I’ll introduce you to the Wardens I’ll have you assigned to. Keep them alive and they’ll keep you alive.”

“Why am I…?” Elissa begins, and Surana shakes her head.

“I can only assume the king wants you to watch when he orders Howe’s execution. Noble witnesses always matter.” She sticks two fingers in her mouth and whistles, drawing the attention of the master of the hounds. “Can’t do that if you’re dead.”

Bear comes trotting up to his mistress’s side and nudges her. Apparently, he’s done socializing with the other warhounds.

“You can hardly expect us to just go wandering off right now.” Faren says. “Half of us hardly have equipment.” He taps his own boiled leather to make a point. Kallian, it has to be noted, is still wearing a bloodstained…is that a wedding dress?

“That’s up to you and…wait. Here.” And she _throws a coin-pouch at him_.

“You’re joking.” Kallian says.

“No, I’m not. Ten sovereigns should get at least a couple of you kitted out. I don’t have any more, the quartermaster’s a cheat, and…well, if we live, I can pay for new splintmail.” Surana shrugs—her mind is obviously somewhere else, if she gave _him_ of all people money. “If we die, I always wanted to go out before the debt collectors came calling.”

Faren palms a sovereign, which is more money than he’s had at one time in his whole _life_ , and nods.

Stone, he really hopes he’ll be able to pay her back for this.

 

* * *

 

_Once the battle is joined, Nyx can’t find any of them. Not Theron, not Durin, not Stefan._

_So she puts one foot in front of the other, points her staff at the enemy, and casts like she never has before._

 

* * *

 

“Get the caster, Surana!” Gregor snarls, over the sound of clashing blades and screaming that so characterize battle. Behind him, Nyx lets her mana surge and points the silverite rune on her staff toward the opposing line—insomuch as there is one, anymore.

All around, darkspawn and soldiers alike are dying in droves.

But there are always more darkspawn.

She catches a pair of genlock emissaries with Mana Clash, killing them both outright by bringing a massive chunk of her mana to bear on their connection to the Fade and triggering backlash, and immediately starts on the gestures for Inferno.

It’s raining buckets, but her mana will sustain the flames despite the storm.

“Ogre!” someone shouts. Nyx has no idea who—at this rate, their men are dying faster than anyone can get a message out or make themselves memorable in her head. All of the Wardens are still alive, at least, and she hasn’t seen a single one of her recruits on the battlefield.

Then she gets a look at the beast. Nyx tightens her grip on her staff, forgetting all about casting Inferno.

She knows _this_ one.

She casts Crushing Prison on the ogre just before it reaches King Cailan and concentrates on compressing a twelve-foot-tall hulking, horned grey brute into something about as thick around as a pike. It doesn’t take much—a lot of her spells and wards are set-and-forget—but she does it anyway just to make sure.

There is no genlock necromancer running around the battlefield right now, but there might be someday. It’s best to give it less ammunition.

Nyx steps out of the way of a charging hurlock, knocking its sword wide, and reaches for her connection to the Fade. On the second swing, the hurlock’s blade passes through her arm as though it’s not there, leaving her untouched, but her blade-tipped staff doesn’t return the favor for the beast’s skull. As she runs toward Duncan and Cailan, her hands become transparent before her eyes and her shadow becomes flickering and indistinct even for something cast by torchlight.

“We’re being overrun,” she snarls as she arrives to guard Duncan’s flank. Cailan may or may not be a lost cause—she’s not sure yet, given that her orders are to protect the recruits over even the king—and she’s wearing some of the most terrible armor she’s had in some time.

And the staff/glaive may do wonders for her casting, but it’s nigh-useless in melee compared to Spellweaver or Asturian’s Might.

“What are you talking about?” Cailan demands, and Nyx can see that this is what got him killed before—the inability to tell when the battle’s gone to shit and heads are going to roll. Such is the nature of commanding from the head of an army rather than the wings or the rear. “Warden Surana, is that you?”

“Not yet.” Duncan says to, and Nyx jolts at the sight of blood running down his temple. He gives her a steely look.

Nyx blows out a frustrated breath, but she nods anyway. She creates a glyph under their feet for reinforcement—hopefully no one is going to get knocked off their feet by an ogre this time around.

“Your Majesty, stay with Nyx as she casts. I am going to draw the horde’s attention.” Duncan calls, and, as though the Maker himself shines down on them, Cailan actually obeys.

Duncan runs ahead and Nyx bites her lip to keep from chasing after him. Maker, she knows she could fight alongside him, but…

Cailan sheaths his sword in the neck of a hurlock a moment later. Whatever his lack of political acumen or common sense, Cailan is a fair fighter. Not as good as Alistair and Sten had been, toward the end, or even Oghren when the dwarf was _way_ more than piss-drunk, but he had clearly been trained and was a big shiny distraction in his golden armor.

Nyx pulls the cork out of a lyrium potion bottle a moment later, downing the metallic brew in one swallow. If there’s a break in the fighting, she needs to top up her mana immediately. Sure, her tolerance limit for the stuff is…probably around five potions by now, but she’s never been good at conserving. And she needs her big spells if she’s to defend a king from what is still, in all likelihood, his fate.

“The signal is lit!” Cailan’s shout makes Nyx’s head whip around—ah, the recruits have done it. She wonders briefly if they still had to fight an ogre to light the signal, but quickly tosses that thought aside in favor of skewering a genlock. Hopefully, Flemeth can take care of the rest.

“ _Focus_ , Your Majesty!” She doesn’t bother to be more polite than that—her voice is rough and deep and _angry_ , as though the king is some sort of child playing in a bullpen. That he’s stupid and silly and not at all worthy of being on the battlefield at all.

“But I need to see Loghain’s charge,” is his reply, and she wants to grind her teeth.

Loghain is not coming to their rescue. He never was.

And she’s not sure Cailan even lived to see the betrayal, last time.

_Hurrah_. Small victories, it seems, are indeed _small_.

It’s futile, of course—Ostagar was lost the moment Loghain turned his back.

But in the moment, they can put off defeat for a little while longer.

And hopefully save a few lives.

 

* * *

 

_Kallian sees the moment an arrow embeds itself just under Elissa’s collarbone, knocking the noblewoman flat on her back._

_She doesn’t see the same happen to her._

 

* * *

 

All that, and Ostagar remains a disaster.

Nyx explodes into a cloud of stinging insects between an ogre’s fingers, each one still retaining some of the shroud’s effects as they phase through its flesh. Maker, she never expected to see an ogre alpha and its hideous shriek escort here. It’s too much—all but four of the Wardens are dead already, the king’s leg is broken, Duncan’s bleeding from a dozen places—and she knows they’re all going to die. They’ve formed a tight ring of steel amidst the darkspawn horde, with Nyx on the outside with one foot in the Fade and one outside of it.

“Surana.” Duncan says in a breathless voice.

Nyx reforms into a single entity, turning into a massive bereskarn and leaping on the ogre’s face to bite it off. Not even an ogre alpha can attack easily without eyes. Half a moment more gives her a chance to rip out its throat with her teeth.

And then she swats the shrieks aside with paws the size of dining platters, snarling.

But she’s still listening.

“Go on, girl.” Gregor says, even as he cuts another hurlock down. The older Warden is also dying, but faster—the arrows that dot his back are testament to that. “Take the king and go.”

“You heard him.” Duncan’s voice is admirably steady, but Nyx only feels her heart sink.

For a brief moment, Nyx hates him. She already has to find the recruits—if any of them are still alive—and guard them as best she can. She has to carry the king away from the massacre. She has to end the Blight—as the oldest Warden, she’ll be the one with the least time to lose. She’s already expected to owe _something_ to the Witch of the Wilds. It’s too much.

But then the hatred is nothing compared to that old resolve.

_I will never…_

Nyx nods. She stays perfectly still as the others lever Cailan onto her back, over his protests, and tell him to lie flat against even the bloodied spines.

Then she runs.

 

* * *

 

_“If we fail here, get the recruits out alive.” Duncan says to her, as Nyx is inspecting the silverite rune she’s managed to graft into her staff._

_“Do you mean I should retreat, Commander?” Nyx asks, eyes narrowing. Calculating._

_Duncan sighs. “Nyx, we_ cannot _afford to lose every living Warden here. Ferelden doesn’t have nearly enough to make up for the loss—at best, Riordan may be in Denerim by now and last long enough to call reinforcements in from Orlais.”_

_Nyx pauses, tilting her head to the side. Then she, too, sighs. “Given how Loghain reacted when the suggestion was even entertained, I don’t doubt you’re right. A loss here would be devastating.” She frowns again. “But why me, of all Wardens?”_

_Duncan gives her a half-smile, wry even in the fading firelight. “I have no doubt you can survive.”_

_Nyx makes a face at him._

_“Or was I wrong when I realized you were a shapeshifter?” Duncan muses._

_“You weren’t.” Nyx taps her staff to her forehead. She must be regretting letting him see her turn into a bear, once. Only the once, mind. “I just don’t want to think about failing while we still have the king’s backing.”_

_“What do you mean?” Duncan demands, voice sharpening. If possible, he’d planned to ask her to keep_ Cailan _away from the battlefield. It sounds like she’s already given up on it._

_“If we die here, the king is probably going to be killed, too.” Nyx says flatly, eyes closed. Her mouth is a whitening line. “We can’t order him off the field and even if we could, Cailan thinks the Grey Wardens are immortal heroes of old and that the horde of darkspawn on the horizon is just made of mindless raiders.” A hiss of anger escapes her. “And there’s no guarantee whoever takes the throne after him is going to be generous enough to give us another army.”_

_Not for the first time, Duncan regrets that ordinary people can’t hear the Archdemon’s song. It would drive lesser men mad, and hearing it persistently has been the first sign of the Calling since the first Wardens started dying. But if they could hear the beast, no one would doubt that it’s a Blight._

_“Four hundred years since the last one, and we expect people to remember?” Nyx growls, as though reading his mind. “Only in the Anderfels.”_

_“Regardless. In the end, Cailan is going to send a number of our recruits up the Tower of Ishal.” Nyx shoots him an unreadable look, and Duncan continues, “They might be able to petition to split up. Take care of them as best you can.”_

_“Each one is a capable enough fighter.” Nyx comments, suspicious. “We wouldn’t have recruited them otherwise.”_

_She says it as though_ both _of them hadn’t made their own calls on who to take. Duncan hadn’t asked her to travel to the Dalish, and his own opinion on who to recruit from Highever had been forced by fate. He had been lucky to find both Durin Aeducan and Faren Brosca before they died either of darkspawn or starvation. Stefan was a similarly lucky find—who knew what would have happened to the boy if he hadn’t arrived the day he did?_

_“Skill means little in this battle.” Duncan says quietly._

_Nyx looks at him for a long moment before saying, “You…didn’t say anything about the king. Or you. Or the other Wardens.”_

_“I know better than to ask the impossible.”_

_“…I understand. For what it’s worth, I agree.” Nyx says, and turns away._

_Duncan watches her retreating back for a long moment, then goes to greet Alistair’s group—every recruit has made it back in one piece, it seems, and they seem to have collected the darkspawn blood. Perhaps, even the treaties._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wanted to use " _Valar Morghulis_ " as a title, since this series draws so heavily from _A Song of Ice and Fire_ , but pretentious High Valryian is probably in bad taste.


	3. From Ashes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Wardens try to deal with the curveballs thrown their way. 
> 
> Some deal better than others.

**_9:30 Dragon_ **

_“We should come up with a signal of our own.” Durin says, after returning from meeting the human king._

_Theron gives him an unreadable look, then returns his attention to his target some hundred feet off. He draws the bowstring back, releases a breath in a slow and steady stream of fog, and fires._

_Bull’s eye. Again._

_Durin crosses his arms over his breastplate and frowns, which even he will admit is not exactly atypical of him anymore. He still lets Theron have his time to think, though. While he cannot be sure if Theron views archery as meditative as Durin’s own swordsmanship is, it would not hurt to wait._

_Sure enough, several minutes pass before, eventually, Theron has to retrieve his spent arrows._

_Durin follows._

_“I am not opposed to this plan.” Theron says after a while longer, looking back toward the king’s tent._

_“Right, then. Well, where do you propose we start?”_

* * *

Theron realizes that the battle is lost long before anyone else.

As a skilled archer, the Warden he had been partnered with had asked that he climb into the lower branches of a tall pine nearby, rather than staying on the ground. Theron had only agreed when Durin Aeducan offered to cut the knees off of the next human to give him an order, which drew a laugh from the assembled Wardens. Apparently, becoming a Grey Warden superseded all other commitments, whether to clan or race. Whether Durin would follow through on his threat had been deemed unlikely, because the humans were far too caught up in their myth to care. Theron hardly agrees with their cavalier attitudes, but he doesn't bother to voice his opinion. They are _shem_ , and being Grey Wardens does not change that.

The only one of the _Elvhen_ he's seen since their group of recruits was split is Senior Warden Surana. For a flat-ear, she fights well in the Keeper arts, but she has not deigned to join their war-band. Instead, she has entrusted the safety of the sole mage recruit (Stefan, because Theron would never even think that _he_ needed protection) to Durin, Theron, and a handful of nominally-skilled humans.

But despite his resentment, he had nonetheless been surprised to find the darkspawn overwhelming their forces. He remembers, of course, that the _shemlen_ king had put together some grand scheme that would have crushed the beasts from their flanks. But he doesn't see it happening. The middle ranks of the _shemlen_ have all but collapsed at the head of the column as the darkspawn continue to storm into range of arrow and ballistae. A few mages fling spells over the line of battle, but he cannot see the darkspawn break ranks or panic, if they do at all.

"What do you see?" the Warden below his perch is bellowing, and Theron drops out of the pine a moment later, bow slung across his back.

"The center cannot hold." Theron replies, immediately looking for Durin and Stefan. Their orders are to retreat when the battle is lost, he thinks, and they cannot hope to stand against tens of thousands of monsters without _some_ sort of reinforcement.

"Aye, we suspected as much," the Warden replies, and Theron blinks at him.

The Warden is a human by the name of Alphred, he thinks, and Theron can see the concern darkening his heavily bearded face. Theron cannot remember anything more about him, but the human just shakes his head. Apparently no one needs him to remember them, anyway. "All Wardens can sense the Taint, and the horde's been getting closer for the past half-hour. We're losing ground, brother, and it may be best for you and your fellows to be elsewhere."

There's a shout from somewhere nearby, and Theron turns. He spots Stefan running up to them, followed closely by Durin. The dwarf is hardly perturbed, he thinks, and if not for the blood spatter across both of them, Theron would hardly think that either Warden had been anywhere near the battle. However, having seen the mage and dwarf pull back from the left flank at about the same time as the tower signal was lit, Theron can hardly blame them for their haste. As it is, he knows that the battle is rapidly turning from a fight to a rout.

"Welcome, brothers. Ill news, I take it?" Alph asks.

Stefan hardly seems to hear him. "Yes, yes, all the news is bad and oh, look, there's blood everywhere."

Theron has a sudden urge to grasp the mage's shoulders and shake sense into him.

"There are only, what, about forty Grey Wardens in Ferelden, including us?" Stefan is speaking so quickly that he is becoming difficult to understand. "Only now there aren't, because Wardens Nikolai and Lorry just died fighting an ogre for us to get away."

"You were both assigned to the left flank, yes?" Alph is peering off into the dark, smoky distance, though he can’t possibly see anything.

"Right, and now there _isn't_ one. Loghain was supposed to show and he didn't and now everyone's dead." The mage is quaking in his boots, Theron realizes. He had never thought the expression could be literal, and wonders at the cause. "I can't find anyone besides you and Durin and I think the templars already pulled out with every mage they could find except me because I'm a Warden—"

Durin takes this moment to kick the mage's legs out from under him.

Stefan lands flat on his back, all the breath knocked right out of him with a squeak, and Durin says sharply, “Pull yourself together.”

“Nyx is probably with the Commander, as one of the senior Wardens and our only mage.” Alph tells them, ignoring Stefan entirely. “If I remember right, they were posted in the thick of things. With the king.”

There is a moment of relative silence as Stefan struggles back to his feet and the rest of them think. The darkspawn are approaching en masse, and it doesn’t take a genius to understand that Ostagar is doomed. Stefan is merely the first of the Wardens whose nerve has broken.

Alph sighs. Then he hefts his two-handed axe over his shoulder, expression serious. Then, “Run.”

“I will not _run_ from darkspawn.” Durin growls, straight-edged longsword in hand.

“And that isn’t a request, Ensign.” Alph says flatly, looking out over the battlefield, far beyond them.

Theron holds up two fingers as Durin is about to launch into a tirade, and the dwarf stops short. Perhaps Durin is not entirely aware of the enmity between _shemlen_ and the Dalish, but it is a rare thing indeed when Theron obeys an order from a human. Where once he was one of the most promising young hunters of his clan, he is a soldier now.

And he thinks that perhaps Durin needs to remember that, for all the _shem_ high-handedness that has been demonstrated time and again, the Grey Wardens can at least be trusted to know when the end is near.

Stefan is opening and closing his mouth, but no sound comes out. He’s still shaking.

“When the horde reaches us, they won’t be able to tell you from a hole in the ground.” Alph growls, “Keep your eyes open and bring the warning to Weisshaupt if you can—Teryn Loghain betrayed the Grey Wardens and we can expect the Blight to continue.”

“Then why do you even want us to retreat?” Durin demands. “The Wardens in the Tower of Ishal—”

“—Are also under attack.” Alph cuts him off, voice dropping another register. “Run and live, brothers. Don’t let Thedas fall.”

Theron’s fingers flash through a variety of quick signs behind Alph’s back. _Don’t argue._

“…Very well.” Durin turns to Stefan, who is shaking his head _no, no, no_. He grabs the mage’s bracer and drags him along as the three very junior Wardens make a break for the tree line.

Theron leads the way.

* * *

“All right, I think that’s far enough for now.” Marian pants, stumbling to a stop and resting against a gnarled old tree. “Maker’s _tits_ , it’s cold out here.”

As soon as she does, her brother throws himself down on the only patch of dry ground they’ve found for some time, groaning. Their mabari—Raleigh, all grey and black and covered in darkspawn blood—whines at them from a little further on, tongue lolling out of his mouth. All three of them are breathing out thick clouds of white fog—it’s fiendishly cold out here, and between the darkspawn blood and grimy swamp water, they’re shaking in the cold.

When Carver gets his breath back, he says, “How much further, sister?”

“That…that I don’t know.” Marian admits, peering up at the sky. Just their luck; she can hardly make out the sun at all. After a second, she lets out a frustrated breath and says, “At least it’s not raining.”

“Great, just great.” Carver snaps, getting to his feet again. Marian throws him a glare over her shoulder, but he doesn’t stop. “The King’s dead, the army’s broken, the _Wardens_ are dead, and _we’re lost._ ”

Marian is about to give a cutting response, but Raleigh starts growling at that moment. Both of the Hawke siblings turn as one—Carver hefts his greatsword, and Marian draws her bow. There’s a rustle in the bushes, and Marian almost expects darkspawn, but the figure that emerges is short, pointy-eared, unarmed, and alone.

Also, not a darkspawn. Having seen shrieks before, Marian is willing to forget some of the other things just to be thankful for that.

For a moment, no one says anything. Raleigh stops growling, though.

“Ostagar survivors?” the elf asks.

Marian nods, lowering her bow. “Yes. And you’re a Grey Warden.” She recognized the little griffon sigil on the woman’s left pauldron, small as it was.

“Yes,” she looks at Raleigh and Carver in turn, as though trying to figure something out. Then she shakes her head and says, “My name is Nyx. I hate to ask anything of you, but I need help. And in asking, I’m assuming you weren’t included in Loghain’s retreat.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Carver demands, but Marian frowns.

“What is this about?”

“…I have a wounded friend, but I can’t help him on my own. Will you help me?” Her voice sharpens somewhat toward the end, and she looks back over her shoulder as though expecting company.

“That depends.” Marian says. She clears her throat under the look Nyx gives her, and adds, “We need someone to lead us back to Lothering. We’re out of our depth out here.”

Marian sees the Warden’s lips move silently—at one point she seems to say, “Bloody Andraste”—before she nods. “All right. I’ve made the trip before—we’ll see if we can shave a day or two off.”

A day or two could make all the difference.

Cheered, Marian slings her bow back over her shoulder, and both Raleigh and Carver relax.

“So, how did you get so far out here? The rest of the Wardens…” Carver trails off, though Nyx just shrugs.

“I was ordered to retreat ahead of the horde,” is all she says on the topic, and leads them through the undergrowth.

“This friend of yours—is he another Warden?” Marian asks.

“No.”

“Well, then, I hope he’s handsome.”

That gets a brief bark of laughter out of the Warden, which makes Raleigh’s ears perk up. Marian scratches behind his ears.

Nyx stops next to another gnarled old tree—this one is about twice as big and twice as ugly as the one Marian had been leaning against earlier, and it’s the only tree in the area that’s shed all its leaves. Marian guesses that it’s dead, but isn’t sure. And anyway, it’s not that important in the end.

Nyx walks right up to the tree and…reaches into the bark, it seems. In that instant, a glaive appears in her hand—no, Marian realizes, it’s a _mage staff_ —and the tree seems to shudder. Briefly, reality ripples, and when Marian blinks the tree has its leaves back all of a sudden and there’s a man lying at the base of its trunk. After a second, the man tries to sit up with a hiss of pain and Marian notices the way his left leg isn’t responding the right way. It makes her a little ill just to look at it, particularly since at some point someone must have gotten his greaves off.

Blonde hair, golden armor… Sure, his eyes are unfocused and he looks absolutely ill with pain, but Marian would know that face anywhere. Her mother was always fond of the king.

“Maker, is that the king?” Carver sounds flabbergasted, and if Marian wasn’t feeling much the same way she would have mocked him for it.

“Yes. I need one—or both—of you to hold him down so I can fix this damned leg of his.” Nyx says. She looks angry, more than anything. “I’ve spent sixteen years killing darkspawn, and never in that time have I been more than competent at healing. I can overcharge my spells in order to do what’s needed, but it’s going to hurt and he is going to scream.”

“...Lady Nyx?” the king asks in a vague sort of way. His eyes aren’t focusing properly.

Nyx sighs. “Now, please. I’ll get a belt…”

Even if Marian doesn’t know much about magical healing, she and Carver both understand battlefield care well enough to understand what the Warden needs. Nyx crams the leather strip into the king’s mouth. Carver grabs the king’s left arm and shoulder, while Marian effectively sits on his right. All five stone of Raleigh’s bulk ends up sprawled across the king’s waist and hip. Nyx takes up a position on his right leg, pinning it under her weight, staff in one hand and the other hand on the king’s shin.

Marian doesn’t catch all that Nyx does—she’s sure that there was something to do with magically resetting bone and then shooting healing magic into the limb until it took, but…ouch. Just overall, ouch.

By the time it’s over, all of them are breathing hard and the king is unconscious. Nyx stands and leans heavily on her staff for a moment. Then she pulls a lyrium potion out of nowhere and downs the vial’s contents in one gulp.

“All right. Give me a moment and I’ll wake him up.” The Warden looks old, somehow—she’s probably ten years older than Marian is, though with elves it’s always hard to tell.

Marian brushes her sweat-slicked hair out of her face and likewise stands. She says, “By the way, I don’t think we ever introduced ourselves.” She makes a sweeping gesture that encompasses her brother and the dog. “Carver, Raleigh, and… Well, my full name is Marian Hawke. But just call me Hawke—it’s faster.”

The Warden says nothing for a moment. Then, “Malcolm’s children?”

Marian frowns. “Actually…wait, aren’t you that elf who visited our farm? Maker, but that was ages ago! I don’t know why I didn’t recognize those tattoos off-hand.” She’d been perhaps nineteen at the time, and rather less interested in joining the army for anything—after all, Carver had only been old enough to play with toy swords back then. Maker knows her brother needs someone to keep an eye on him (forever), and in the years since their father’s death it had been her job.

And if that meant joining the arl’s men in order to do so…well, big sister’s prerogative.

That also means she has a much better memory for faces than Carver did at the time—eighteen or not, her brother is hardly going to remember the face of a woman who, at the time, Father had banned him from so much as seeing.

Marian, on the other hand, remembered quite well.

Nyx nods.

“Well, then. Sorry if I wasn’t much help then—didn’t know you were a Warden.” Marian waves a hand. She’d had other things on her mind then. Like keeping the twins out of trouble for as long as she could. “So, about the king, and the battle.”

“What do you want to know?” Nyx asks, even while digging around her pockets for another trinket.

“What _happened_?” Carver breaks in, and Marian isn’t even quite sure what he’s talking about. Maybe everything.

“From what I understand of the strategy, everything went wrong.” Nyx jerked a thumb at Cailan. “His lines _charged_ into the darkspawn, when they were supposed to hold position. Loghain quit the field. Two-thirds of my order, at a minimum, died fighting.” Briefly, she pinches the bridge of her nose. “But that’s not important now. I’ll get you to Lothering—it’s the nearest town—get _him_ somewhere that isn’t Lothering, and then start this operation from the ground up.”

“Only two-thirds?” Marian asks before she can think better of it.

“…From what I can tell, some of the most recent recruits may be alive.” Nyx shakes her head again, “But for now, I’ll have to put that aside to get him—” she punctuates this with another sharp jerk of her head, toward the unconscious king, “—out of harm’s way, and to fulfill my end of the bargain with you.”

Marian pauses. “You’re saying that our lovely little village isn’t safe enough for the king.”

“It won’t be—as the southernmost village in Ferelden short of Ostagar, the Blight will hit Lothering first.” Nyx’s mouth is a flat, grim line. “We have to go.”

“On that count, we’re agreed.” Marian says. “Come on, let’s get King Cailan up and walking before we run off into the next disaster.”

“And here I thought you two were going to stand around and chat until the darkspawn turn up for tea.” Carver grumbles, but Nyx seemingly ignores the comment. Marian knows she does.

It takes some doing, with smelling-salts and also a slap to the face, but the king is on his feet within a few minutes. He’s very quiet, compared to the man Marian vaguely remembers, but he’s at least walking. And then they’re off.

Maker, it seems like they’re always off _somewhere_. Hopefully there will be a safe end to this, soon.

* * *

**_9:24 Dragon_ **

_Lothering is different from the village she remembers._

_Part of the problem is that she never had a chance to visit, back when the place wasn’t under threat from an imminent darkspawn invasion. She’d been twelve and still locked inside of Kinloch Hold, like every other mage her age. The town looks odd without refugees scattered all over, trying desperately to stay one step ahead of the darkspawn. It seems quiet, peaceful._

_The other half of the problem, though, is how she is currently looking_ down _at it from the arc in front of the Chantry, in the form of a jet-black crow._

_Traveling through the Wilds in the form of an elf in borrowed clothes hadn’t been the most practical idea, particularly without a hat or gloves in the midst of winter. She’s lucky that Morrigan had been willing to teach her how to change shape, even if she never quite expected to be able to use it to travel like this._

_Nyx ruffles her feathers and tries to focus despite a growing sense of desperation._

_She remembers hearing, at some point, that the Champion of Kirkwall had originally been a Lothering refugee. Nathaniel had even told her that he’d seen Anders, long since possessed and teetering toward extremism, in the Champion’s company. She remembers clenching her fists on her writing-desk, wishing she could drag the errant Warden back by his ear and understand where it had all gone wrong. She also remembers a report or two, from the Wardens in the Free Marches—about an apostate named Malcolm Hawke, about the debt Warden-Commander Larius owed the man, and about the one of the first darkspawn, Corypheus._

_While Nyx had been forced to cut contact with her fellow Wardens and go on the run, she still maintained connections until the moment she woke up in the Wilds._

_It’s a pity that none of those connections mean anything now. The only creature she has the bad luck to be nominally allied with is_ Flemeth.

_This can only end badly._

_After a moment more, Nyx spreads her wings and takes off again. Hopefully, if nothing else, Malcolm Hawke can point her toward some of the Ferelden Wardens. Where there is one Warden, there are probably more, and sooner or later she’ll be able to find Duncan._

_She hopes Hawke is at least willing to listen to a Warden after all that’s happened. She needs a lead._

_(Though really, what she needs is a lifeline.)_

* * *

**_9:30 Dragon_ **

Elissa wakes up and wonders why.

It’s strange how _heavy_ everything feels—as though she has a weight across her chest and arms. Even besides that bone-deep weariness is a sort of _dullness_ that spans everything she can see. She’s not precisely in pain, but it also feels like she’s trying to move through molasses.

“Good to see you awake, Lady Cousland,” says a familiar voice to her right. She blinks, and while the molasses feeling doesn’t go away, she’s able to turn her head to see Faren Brosca sitting at her bedside.

“Well met,” she croaks, and winces.

“Yes, well, same to you if that’s all right.” Faren shifts, looking uncomfortable, but Elissa is too distracted to note his morose expression.

“Here,” says another voice, and Kallian Tabris appears at her side. She sets a cup down on a nearby table, which Elissa realizes she can’t get up to take. Not on her own.

Good. That’s…that’s two Wardens alive, besides her. Elissa closes her eyes briefly. _Thank the Maker for small miracles_. They’re alive and she’s alive and thank the Maker she hasn’t lost _everyone_.

After a moment, both Faren and Kallian help her sit up, and Elissa feels every bone in her back creak in protest. This is followed by most of her major joints, making her wince. She doesn’t curse, but it’s a close thing.

Still, it feels a little better to be upright. “Where…where are we?” Elissa tries again, but her throat is still dry.

“In my mother’s home.” Elissa blinks and looks to their left—and there, standing by the fireplace, is Morrigan.

Kallian presses the cup into her hand before she can think of anything else to say, and Elissa gulps the contents gratefully. Even cold, tea is better than nothing.

Once she’s done, Elissa clears her throat. She pushes back at the feeling of dullness and distorted time, blinks away the confused knot her emotions have become over the past several weeks. Then she says, “What happened?”

Morrigan tells them.

Loghain: Retreated.

The King: Missing, presumed dead.

The other Wardens: Missing or dead.

The only known survivors can be counted on one hand: Alistair, Elissa herself, Faren, and Kallian. And not one of them has been in the Wardens for more than a year.

Elissa wants to bury her face in her hands and _scream_ , but she can’t. Not now. Not yet.

“…How long until we can leave?” Elissa asks.

Faren replies, “As soon as you can walk, we’ll go.” The dwarf’s expression is remarkably grim, and when Elissa looks at Kallian to confirm, the elf woman nods. Faren continues, “You were the worst-off out of us—Kallian only took a flesh wound, and I had a concussion that cleared up all right. You were—what do topsiders call it?—oh, a pincushion.”

“Oh.” Elissa looks down at the bandages covering her shoulders and chest. Hard to believe she hadn’t noticed them before, but whatever injuries she took don’t hurt anymore.

“…And can I just say, it’s nice to hear you actually talk for once?” Kallian puts in. The elf’s smile is sort of wobbly, but Elissa just blinks at her. “We were…worried.”

Elissa sighs. “Then…then I apologize. But we have to see—”

There is an abrupt commotion outside, and a lot of shouting.

“Hang onto that thought.” Faren says, and heads for the door.

He slips outside easily, leaving Kallian and Elissa in the house to think. They don’t have long, or anything much to say. At least, Elissa doesn’t. Kallian’s blonde brows are knit together suspiciously, but she hasn’t gotten up yet.

Then the shouting gets louder.

Faren slips back in. Amazingly, he looks a little stunned and a little happy. Sort of an even mix, and it takes him a moment to find his voice. Then, “The others made it!”

“What?” Kallian jumps to her feet, looking more hopeful than Elissa has ever seen her. For her part, Elissa feels a buoyant sensation building in her chest. The dwarf couldn’t mean…?

“Theron, Durin, and Stefan all made it here.” Faren says, “Couldn’t tell you how, but that’s three more of us who made it out, and I bet Theron had something to do with it.”

Theron…right, the Dalish archer. Stefan was the Circle mage and Durin the…other dwarf. Elissa frowns, feeling like she should _know_ more, but gives up.

It’s the first good news she’s had in a long while.

“Help me up.” Elissa says to Kallian. “I can’t…I can’t walk on my own, but I need to see them.”

“No problem. Faren, if you would?” Kallian takes Elissa’s arm while Faren steadies her waist from the other side, and they walk out together.


End file.
